My hair is starting its promised journey. Tufts of it clog the plug hole.
Why not, I knew it would go, despite the painful experiment with cooling.
But still I thought it wouldn't go - that I would be different. Just as I would never be the sort of person to get cancer, I would never go bald and look like a victim.The two other people I knew who had chemo and went bald both died.
Putting the wet loops of hair into the waste bin my heart pounds. Feel tearful, sit and cry. Then feel elated; part of me wants it to go, to get it over, and also to have the full experience.
Text my mother far away in her village to tell her about my hair. She texts back to say, "think of all those lovely wigs."
It misses the mark - I want her to phone me, to help me feel strong about this, but she sends a text saying she is going to "a strawberry tea at the Hospice."
Think of wigs, look on the bright side, stiff upper lip. No need to make a fuss, or pick up a phone.
Go for a walk in the park, wearing my sun-glasses so no one sees my red eyes.